What They Expect to See
by Salsify
Summary: Gandalf and Aragorn are both pretty good judges of character, but they have drastically different opinions of Barliman Butterbur. What does one of them know that the other doesn't?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and every character you recognize (and maybe some you don't) are Tolkien's, not mine. No offense intended & I'm not making any money from this.

A/N: I've wondered for years why Gandalf and Aragorn had such different opinions of Barliman Butterbur. His behavior in LotR doesn't seem to justify either Gandalf's statement that Butterbur can see through a brick wall in time or Aragorn's rather OOC snide remarks. Obviously, more went on than ever made it into the book. Here's a guess about what it might have been. I promise that eventually people will stop talking and do something.

Anorien, Summer 3019

The sun was warm on the fields of Anorien as King Elessar's party rode north. In the midst of the train was a somberly draped wagon carrying Theoden back to Rohan, a reminder of the grievous losses of the past winter. Though it was a funeral procession, sometimes the joy that was always so close to the surface these days got the better of the party and it more closely resembled a Lithedays outing in the Shire. Theoden's words on the field of Pelennor floated to the top of Gandalf's mind. *And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. I felled the black serpent. A grim morning, and a glad day, and a golden sunset.* The thought of a cheerful journey home might well have seemed fitting to the old king there at the end, thought the wizard. 

That was just as well, because this summer, there were few who could stay in a solemn mood for long. The weather had been perfect for travel and merrymaking, the company excellent, and the provisions nothing short of luxurious. Even the hobbits said there was plenty of food and it was all very good. Comparing this trip to his memories of their journey south, Gandalf had to laugh.

"What is it?" asked Aragorn, riding alongside him.

"I was just thinking that no sane person would take hobbits any great distance without half a dozen supply wagons and a full complement of cooks," said Gandalf.

"Does that mean you will not risk traveling with them once the wagons turn back for Minas Tirith?"

"No," said Gandalf, doing his best to sound terribly put-upon. "I suppose I will just have to get accustomed again to hearing 'Isn't it about time we stopped to eat?' a dozen times a day or more. I mean to go with them as far as the Old Forest. I want to have a good long talk with Tom Bombadil, and that will give me a chance to see Butterbur again on the way."

Aragorn frowned and shook his head. "That is something I have never understood. Perhaps now that we are between emergencies for a while, you can explain to me what you find so remarkable about Butterbur. It seems you count him as a close friend, but after all the insults I've had to endure from him over the years, I don't see how that can be possible. And when I think of the harm he did when he forgot to deliver that letter to Frodo....."

Gandalf winced. "Barliman wasn't the only one at fault there. I knew perfectly well that his memory works in mysterious ways, when it does at all, and that I was asking him to work from one of his weaknesses. No, that particular disaster was a joint effort." He sighed. He'd known even as he handed the letter to Butterbur that it had no hope of being delivered unless Barley found a messenger before the next contretemps at the Pony claimed his attention. "There is more to your dislike than just his absent-mindedness, I trust."

"I know you told Frodo that Butterbur was shrewd enough to see through a brick wall in time, but in all the years I've known him, I've still seen no proof," said Aragorn, a little vexation creeping into his tone. "He is barely literate and only vaguely aware of anything farther from Bree than the Shire. He could never have coped with the smallest part of the evil the Rangers drove away from Bree, and yet he treats us with open contempt."

Gandalf nodded. "Now we come closer to the heart of the matter. Might the problem be Breelanders in general and not simply Butterbur?"

There was a long pause filled with the sound of nothing but the thud of hooves on the turf and insects buzzing in the tall grass while Aragorn thought about the question. "It's both. Looking after Breelanders means a great deal of effort for very little reward, and Butterbur is the worst of them all."

"Hmm, I seem to recall a much younger Ranger making a similar comment about hobbits once," said Gandalf, letting a bit of severity creep into his tone. Aragorn flushed, but said nothing. "I brought up hobbits for good reason. A curious thing about Men is how much they come to resemble other races when they live among them. If the Dunedain are the most elvish of Men, then the Men of Bree are the most....hobbitish. You've seen enough of hobbits to know they keep their strength annoyingly well hidden most of the time. Many of the Men of Bree seem to have picked up that habit from them, and Barliman Butterbur is certainly one of them."

Aragorn still looked distinctly dubious.

"I know he's always acted like an utter fool around you, but by the same token, I've never seen you more sarcastic than you are around him. Neither one of you has ever seen the other at anything approaching his best." Gandalf shook his head at the disparity between Aragorn and Butterbur apart and the two of them together. The Rangers and the Breelanders had been trading subtle insults for centuries now, but Aragorn and Butterbur had taken the quarrel to a new level. In the press of the last twenty year's events, Gandalf had had to push their feud to the back of his mind, but it was clear the time had come to deal with it. Bree was part of Aragorn's kingdom too, and it would do neither him nor the Breelanders any good for the trouble to continue. "Part of the problem may be that you are still thinking of them the way a Ranger would. The Rangers protected the Shire and Bree so well that few of you have ever seen what the locals can do in a pinch. Until last year, Dervorin was probably the only one in the last fifty years."

"Dervorin?" asked Aragorn, puzzled. "He used to guard travelers on the East Raod, didn't he? Surely Butterbur never went far enough from the Prancing Pony to need an escort."

Gandalf chuckled. "I take it Dervorin never told you the story of the wizard, the dwarf and the innkeeper's son, then."

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. "I hope you don't mean the one Pippin told last night."

"No, no! That was 'The Ranger, the Dwarf, and the Innkeeper's *Daughter*'. If you need to refresh your memory, I'm sure Pippin would be happy to repeat it."

"I would much rather erase that memory than refresh it. Those puns were so vile that I'm sure they would count as a form of torture." Aragorn gave Gandalf a speculative look. "Do you suppose he could have learned that story while the Uruk-hai had him?"

"Pippin told me he got that one from Fredegar Bolger, so we can acquit the orcs of that, at least. No, Dervorin's story is something different, though I have to admit that there were parts of the tale that could be told as a joke."

"Very well then," said Aragorn, "Tell your tale and show me what I have been missing about Barliman Butterbur."

TBC


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its people are Tolkien's. I'm only borrowing them, and I always try to be extra careful with things I've borrowed. 

Author's note: I posted this earlier with some additional material that was nowhere near ready yet. Sorry! It will be back as soon as I get the problems ironed out.

As for Pippin's story, I'm afraid I can't help you. When I wrote that, I was thinking of an old friend from college who specialized in stories that had everyone writhing on the floor in agony, but I never could manage it except by accident in front of the stuffiest sorts of authority figures.

I'm probably going to revise this story before I get to the end, so if you have any suggestions, please let me know. 

The Blue Mountains, February 2993

Frár had only been in Lord Skirvir's private audience room for a few minutes before he found himself thinking he could get the same results in much less time by throwing himself down a mineshaft. "I will do my best to deliver any message you like, but I see no way that I can_._ After everything that was said and done when the others left for Erebor, I doubt any Dwarf of the Blue Mountains would be admitted there."

"That is why I am sending along the jewels that Farin refused to release to those who went to Erebor," said Skirvir. 

Frár fought a brief and largely successful battle to keep his jaw from dropping. Those gems lay at the heart of the feud between the Blue Mountains and Erebor. When the larger part of the Blue Mountain Dwarves had set out for the Lonely Mountain, they took all their possessions with them, or had intended to. Those who were staying said the gems were products of the Blue Mountains and should remain there. Those leaving for the Lonely Mountain said the ones who stayed behind would get their halls and their fixtures, so it would be a fair partition to send the portable goods with them to Erebor. In the end, the late Lord Farin had called out his remaining warriors to keep those who were bound for Erebor from taking any of the disputed property. The emigrants had been furious, but the prospect of great prosperity in Erebor finally outweighed their rage at the injustice and they had departed without the jewels. 

Dwarves were known among the Free Peoples for their jealousy and capacity for bearing grudges, and that was one rumor about his people that Frár had to admit was not a pack of lies. Some of those gems had been in the hands of Farin's staunchest supporters. Frár struggled to imagine a way in which the jewels could have been separated from the previous owners without ending in enough dead Dwarves to fill all the existing burial caverns. _What have I let him talk me into? _ he wondered, trying to get the words "blood feud" out of his mind. After a long while, he managed to say, "If I've done something to displease you, you could just clout me a time or two and have done." 

Skirvir shook his head and said, "If there had been anyone else I thought I could trust with this, I would have done so. This is not the sort of reward I would have chosen for your loyalty." Skirvir leaned back in his chair and stared up at the graceful vaults of the ceiling. When he spoke again, it was in a tone so distant that Frár wondered if his lord even remembered he was there. "We must make an end of this quarrel. It has gone on too long already. Tharkûn is right. The enemy will soon be upon us, while we distract ourselves from the true danger with this pointless squabble. No, we must settle this now and ready ourselves for the real battle before time runs out."

That was a line of thought that he was accustomed to hearing from Lord Skirvir, thought Frár, but one that was deeply unpopular in the Blue Mountains. Farin had resented King Dáin for luring so many away to Erebor, and had spent the rest of his life making sure that everyone else who stayed behind resented it as well. He believed with great dedication that those who had gone to Erebor took with them more wealth than they had any right to. As an added insult, the halls of Blue Mountains had begun to be treated as a backwater after they had been the last refuge of Dwarven culture for so many years. 

During the years when Farin had ruled the Blue Mountains, his nephew Skirvir had kept his counsel and watched what was happening in the world beyond the dwarven halls. He had noted the orcs and other evil things appearing in places where they had never been seen before, and carefully sounded out others who shared his worries. He built alliances with the skill and patience of a master craftsman, even if his materials were not ones that Dwarves generally chose to use. Sometimes his lord reminded him more of Tharkûn than any dwarf had a right to. One day, he promised himself, he was going to make up his mind whether he felt more pride or embarrassment to serve such a lord. 

"You must leave as soon as the roads are passable. I've gathered a large band of warriors to send off openly, but you will travel with seven others I can trust. I had thought to send a large enough escort with you to fight off any attackers, but there were too few that I could trust that completely. We will have to rely on secrecy and misdirection instead. The seven who will accompany you are all fine warriors, but they will go clad as craftsmen and your party must appear to be no more than that. I have sent word to Tharkûn that you will meet him at _The Prancing Pony _in Bree. The landlord there is discreet and no enemy to our people. If Tharkûn is delayed, you can safely wait there a few days. He will accompany you the rest of the way to the Lonely Mountain, and once there, he will stay to give you any aid you need to present our case and deliver the gems."

"So it's Tharkûn who will keep the King from chopping me into tiny little bits before I deliver your message. I thought it would take at least that," muttered Frár, only half in jest.

Lord Skirvir frowned a little at the younger dwarf's levity. "Something of that sort, if I am not overcome with the urge to deny King Dáin the pleasure. I chose you to deliver this message despite your youth because out of all the Dwarves left in the Blue Mountains, I thought you were the least wedded to this miserable feud. Don't prove me a fool by making light of anything that is said in Erebor."

Frár stiffened. "When have I ever said these things in public?"

Skirvir nodded. "Just remember that when you reach Erebor. There is too much at stake to risk on an untimely jest." Then the severity dropped away and he added, "And by Mahal, be careful! The danger would be great enough if you were merely delivering a pouch of jewels to Erebor. Farin still has his loyal followers, and I cannot imagine them sitting by quietly while we overthrow everything he spent the last fifty years trying to accomplish. They are almost certain to try to prevent it somehow. The warriors I'm sending with you are seasoned and trustworthy, but there are many leagues of wilderness between here and the Lonely Mountain, and just as many opportunities to do someone harm along the way. Watch yourself."

***

__

The Prancing Pony, May 2994

It was too soon to be so worried, Gandalf told himself. Frár and his escorts were to have arrived by the end of April, and they had only overshot the appointed time by a day. In such a wet spring, they would have had to make very good time indeed to be no more delayed than that. He was a day late himself, since there had been some concern that the high water might be undercutting the foundations of the Brandywine Bridge, and Bilbo had asked him to have a look at it. Any passing Dwarves would surely have been asked to check it over as well, and even without being set to work as bridge inspectors, it was a long journey from the Blue Mountains. Still, he couldn't get rid of the feeling that something had gone very wrong.

He looked back down the street, hoping they might have just arrived. The cobbles were still wet in places, but most of the puddles had evaporated under the warm spring sun and the people of Bree were taking full advantage of the break in the rain. The street leading around the hill to the town gate was crowded with Men and Hobbits, but not a Dwarf in sight. He shook his head at his foolishness, and stepped into the inn.

He paused for a moment just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. 

"Master Gandalf, what a surprise!" said someone from the darkness of the hallway. The voice was familiar but somehow unfamiliar at the same time. "Dad was beginning to think you'd taken a dislike to us. He'll be that happy to hear you've come for a visit again. Not to mention Tilly and Tom and Nob, and well, everybody. Will you be staying long this time?"

He took a closer look and smiled. "Good afternoon, young Barliman." The last time he'd seen the innkeeper's son, the boy had only just begun to help out in the more public parts of the inn. Since then, his voice had dropped an octave, and he was beginning to take on the barrel shape that had been characteristic of Butterbur men for more generations than Gandalf cared to recall. "I'm not sure how long I will be able to stay this time. I'm supposed to meet a party of eight dwarves from the Blue Mountains here, and travel on to the Lonely Mountain with them. Have they arrived yet?"

Barliman eyebrows shot up, and he gave Gandalf an odd look, but only shook his head. "No, they haven't. We haven't seen a party that big since last autumn. A pair of Dwarves came through, oh, it must have been over two weeks ago now, and it's a wonder they could get through at all. They said the Bucklebury Ferry has been out of service all spring because the river was flooded so bad, and I don't doubt things get worse the further you get from civilized parts."

Gandalf suppressed a smile at Barliman's assumption that Bree was the center of the civilized world. "Then it appears that I will have plenty of time for a visit with you and your family."

"They'll be glad to see you again. Especially Tilly. She _still _talks about the sweets you kept in your pockets," said Barliman, grinning.

Gandalf smiled back, and said, "I suppose you're too old for that sort of thing now."

The innkeeper's son looked a little regretful at the prospect of being too grown up to rifle through the wizard's pockets with the children, but shrugged and said, "I suppose it was bound to happen. I'll just go tell Dad you're here."

Barliman ducked back into the kitchens and reappeared a moment later with his father. Tim Butterbur was a bit grayer than the last time Gandalf had seen him, but still had the same quick, bobbing movements. 

"Gandalf, you're back!" he said, grinning widely. "I was beginning to think you'd taken a fancy to the ale at _The Forsaken Inn_ and deserted us. It's been nearly five years."

Gandalf thought back over the last few years and realized that old Butterbur was right. That certainly explained Barliman's sudden maturity. He hadn't made many trips to Rivendell or beyond in the last few years and those had generally been too rushed and urgent to allow for a stop at _The Prancing Pony_. He hadn't even seen Tim's family the last time he was there. It might not be a bad thing if Frár did arrive a day or two behind schedule. Apart from being a fine brewer, Tim was good, undemanding company. Between his latest duel of wits with Lord Denethor and trying to encourage an end to the feud between the Dwarves of Erebor and the Blue Mountains, talking to Tim would be a distinct relief. The innkeeper didn't have to be cajoled into behaving reasonably, and there was no need to scrutinize every word before it was said. Breelanders were notoriously uninterested in the outside world and might well miss an occasional slip. If not, then discretion carried great weight in the Butterbur family. "Has it really been five years? Then it's past time I stayed for a while."

"How long do you plan to stay?" Tim asked. "Not that I mean to hurry you out the door, but the Tunnelly wedding is week after next and once the Tunnelly relatives start arriving, there'll be no peace for anyone in Bree."

"It's going to be a big wedding, is it?" asked Gandalf. Tim rolled his eyes and Barliman muttered that he was never going to get married, never. "In that case, I think I can find some pressing business at the Lonely Mountain about that time. I'm really not certain how long I will stay. I'm supposed to meet a Dwarf here. His name is Frár, and he's coming from the Blue Mountains with seven others. They were planning to be here by today, but your son tells me they haven't arrived."

"Then there's no better time to sit and visit for a while. It'll keep you from worrying about them being late & me from worrying about whether there'll be anything left of me or _The Pony_ after the Tunnellys are through with us," said Tim. "Here, Barley. You take over for a bit."

Barley looked disappointed and elated in equal measure, but he agreed easily enough and went off to fetch them some beer. Tim led Gandalf to a table in the back corner of the common room. The wizard noted with amusement that it was positioned so that Tim could see though the open doorway into the kitchen, as well as having a clear view of the front door. Old Butterbur wasn't entirely ready to turn over the reins yet, it seemed.

Tim must have noticed his amusement, because he said, "Barley's a good lad, but I'm not sure he's ready to handle everything that might happen at _The Pony _by himself yet. But here he comes with our beer. Tell me what you think of this batch."

Barliman set mugs of beer in front of the two of them and opened his mouth to say something, but his father hushed him. Gandalf raised an eyebrow. If the Butterbur family didn't take beer so seriously, the expectant looks on their faces would have made him suspect some sort of prank. He took a cautious sip, and then a deeper one. "Tim, you've outdone yourself."

Tim elbowed his son in the ribs and grinned. Barliman ducked his head and grinned back as Tim said, "No, I haven't. Barley has. That's one of his you're drinking."

"Oh? Then congratulations to you both."

Tim gave his son an affectionate swat and said, "Off you go then, Barley, and let Gandalf know straightaway if any Dwarves come in."

"I will, Dad," said Barliman and headed to another table to see if the Breelanders there wanted another round. 

"That really is good beer, Tim," said Gandalf.

"It is, isn't it?" said Tim proudly. Breelanders kept their accomplishments to themselves with almost the same dedication that other people gave to hiding their failings, but apparently it was allowable to admit that one's children were talented. 

"He has the knack for it," Tim continued, "which is a blessing because of everything he _hasn't_ got the knack for. If those Dwarves come in, odds are he won't remember you wanted to be told, _if _he remembers he was supposed to watch for them at all. There never was such a one for losing keys and packages and the like. It's odd; he doesn't forget who's drinking what, or when we're running low on flour, but you'd think his shoes could run away on their own as often as he loses them. I thought he'd outgrow it, but it only gets worse."

Tim sighed and shook his head. "He has a hard time of it, being so forgetful, but none of the others can come close to Barley at figuring out how to make Outsiders feel at home. The others do well enough with Breefolk, Big or Little, but Barley can get Dwarves chatting, and even a Ranger now and then. Well, the Rangers probably only talk to make a game of him, but it doesn't seem to bother him and that's more than any of the rest of us ever manage. No, he knows the parts that can't be taught, and I suppose if he marries wisely and keeps a good staff, they can cover for him when he gets lost on the way to the privy."

"Tim, he cannot possibly be that bad," said Gandalf.

"Oh, I was exaggerating, but just you watch," said Tim darkly. "If he doesn't come through here wondering where he left his apron or why he was supposed to keep an eye out for Dwarves at least twice tonight, I'll take back everything I said about him." He shrugged and sighed, "Ah, well. I could have done much worse than my Barliman."

"Indeed you could," said Gandalf, and lifted the beer to his lips again. The mug emptied, he set it down and said, "Beer that good calls for good pipe-weed to follow. Here, have some of this and tell me how things have gone in Bree while I've been away."

Tim picked up the pouch and whistled when he saw the mark. "Old Toby! Then you must think the world of Barley's brewing. I couldn't trade beer nor money nor both of them together for Southfarthing pipe-weed last year." He filled his pipe with a happy sigh. 

Before Tim could explain his remark, Barliman appeared behind him with two more beers and a harried expression on his face. "Dad, some of the Tunnellys just showed up. Tilly's distracting them with turnovers while we get the rooms ready."

Tim sat bolt upright, an identical look of dismay spreading across his broad face. "Already? They weren't any of them due in till day after tomorrow! How many are there?" 

His son could only shrug. "There's about a dozen so far. They told me they decided to come early because of the bad roads and visit some other relatives before the wedding, and some of the others were thinking of doing the same."

"Confound them! I'd best go check the storerooms and see what we can scrape up to feed that many, and all of them ready to feast the month away, I'll warrant." He got up frowning and said, "I wish I could have talked longer, Gandalf, but this blasted wedding.... Barley will look after you. And Barley, the longer I think about it, the more I think you're right. No child of mine is going to get married if I have anything to say about it. Weddings!"

__

TBC


End file.
